Deathside
by Lacewood
Summary: A collection of vignettes and drabbles, Soul Society edition. Spoilers up to 202. [12: Benihime and Shirayuki, a meeting of the red and white.]
1. advantage

**Advantage**    
For Michi

* * *

Sitting in the shelter of the rickety old house, back propped against the wall, Renji scowled. His empty stomach echoed at him, then shifted to twinge uneasily - he ignored it.

Not after it'd gotten him into trouble in the _first_ place.

The boy didn't even look up when someone shoved the door open to peer in. Footsteps crossed the room and then Rukia settled down on the ground beside him.

"I told you the food had gone bad, didn't I?" She pointed out.

"Shut up." He didn't need her to tell him _that_ again, not after he'd spent half the afternoon doubled over cursing the world in general and his stomach in particular. It wasn't like he hadn't eaten weird stuff before, how was _he_ to know... "I was hungry, okay?"

"Huh." The small girl snorted, then gave him a thoughtful look.

He eyed her sudden interest with suspicion. "What?"

Before he could back safely out of reach or even figure out what he was doing - she suddenly leaned over, nimble fingers reaching to yank at his hair. "Ow! What d'you think you're -"

The string that kept his hair up came loose in her hands and he felt his hair fall to brush the back of his neck, almost at his shoulders. Rukia stared. "Wow. I didn't know your hair was that long."

"What did you do that _for_?" He snapped, exasperated. "And give that back!"

"I just wanted to see what you looked like with your hair down." She said, staying just out of his reach. "It's even longer than_mine_." She grinned.

"Feh, so what? It's not like I've got anyone to cut it for me, right? And give that _back_."

She ignored his glare, turning to shove something across the dirt floor to him. Renji stopped and stared. A... pot? A trickle of warm air steamed out from under the cover. "What's this? Where did you get it from? What..."

"It's soup." Rukia said breezily. "Drink it, it's still hot. Maybe it'll make your stomach feel better."

"What?! But where did you get..."

"We grabbed old Kujiwara's dinner while his wife was out gossiping with a neighbour. That'll teach him to leave rotten food lying around his stall for us." She explained calmly.

"Oh." He stared at the pot and almost, sort of, felt slightly better. "... Thanks."

"It's nothing. Don't just stare at it, it'll get cold." She said, standing up and looking down at him with the same ominously thoughtful stare she'd been giving him minutes ago. "You know, I bet I could _braid_ your hair..."

Renji glowered. "Don't even think about it! Just because I'm sick doesn't mean I'm going to let you play with my hair, dammit!"

"Oh, but you'd look so _cute_ -"

"Get away from me!"

_end_

August 2003


	2. fate begun

**Fate Begun**   
For Nik

* * *

The dustpan thumped against his back with every step. Thump thump thump, and all Hanatarou could think of was, even his own equipment was against him.

Oh, but of course. Someone had clapped him on the back as he left and told him to cheer UP! He looked like he was going to melt into a puddle on the floor - it wasn't that bad! And hey, it had to beat toilet duty, right?

Toilet duty didn't come complete with _dangerous criminals_, Hanatarou could have pointed out. As it was, he sighed and concentrated on not melting into a puddle of gloom on the ground. It'd make a mess, and he didn't want that, did he?

He trudged on. The walk to Division Six's prison cells wasn't long but it still left Hanatarou too much time to think about all the things that could go wrong. Prisoners tended to be well behaved enough, or at least possessed of enough sense to leave the sweepers who made sure their cells stayed clean alone. But most prisoners weren't members of the _Kuchiki_ family either.

He wasn't even sure what Division Six's newest prisoner was being executed _for_. But it had to be serious if it warranted death.

The guard at the door took one look at his broom and waved him in without a second glance. Hanatarou pushed the door silently open and peered through it, nervous. The room was large, high-ceilinged, ending in the cell that took up half of it, with sunlight pouring through the single window. He blinked, and saw.

The cell was so large it dwarfed the figure seated, unmoving, in the chair. A girl in a white robe, sitting with her back to the door. She looked small for a Kuchiki, he thought, before telling himself that that was silly. But he'd certainly expected someone more... imposing.

He slid the door shut behind him, crossed the room on cautious, silent feet. She didn't turn at his approach - she could have been carved from stone, he thought, staring at that still back.

Fumbling for the key, it turned in the lock with a loud clank - he winced at the noise. The prisoner moved then, a bare turn of her head and an expressionless glance. Hanatarou stared back, wide-eyed, but she only turned back again to stare into the distance.

She didn't _really_ look like she was going to kill him and try to escape. That was a good thing, right? He stepped into the cell. Turned to shut the door behind him when his broom caught in the bars, tangled between his legs and sent him to the ground with a pained yelp and the clang of his dustpan bouncing off the floor.

Silence.

Face on the floor, elbows and knees and just about everything else yelling at him for being a clumsy fool, that had _hurt_, he groaned. Remembered where he was and managed to push himself off the ground.

"I'm sorry! Really sorry! I didn't mean to, I'm so clumsy, I'm sorry..." He babbled. It would just about serve him right if the prisoner stabbed him with his own broom and escaped, he thought, or complained to the Captain about sending incompetent sweepers to clean her cell or...

"Are you all right?" The voice asked. He looked up and blinked. The prisoner was standing before him, eyebrows raised, looking concerned.

"Ah! Yes, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm so sorry to have disturbed you..." He tried to stand and almost tripped over his broom _again_.

She reached down and picked up the broom, propped it against the wall. "Here." Offered him a slim hand with a small smile. Hanatarou stared, realised that he wasn't dreaming the hand, and took it. It pulled him to his feet with no trouble.

"What's your name?"

"Ha... Hanatarou, from Division Four, I'm still new and I really didn't mean to..."

"No, it's okay." She smiled at him. "I was a rookie once too."

She had such sad eyes even when she smiled, he found himself thinking, before flushing.

"Ah... ah, thank you for your help, Kuchiki-sama..."

The prisoner had already turned to return to her chair. She looked at him. "Just call me Rukia." She said.

Hanatarou stared at the thought of calling a member of the esteemed Kuchiki family by her first name, remembered what he was here for and picked up his broom again. He spent the better part of an hour sweeping out the cell, sneaking glances at the strange prisoner all the time. When he was done, she even said thank you.

Later, shutting the door behind him with a sigh of relief, he thought things hadn't been so bad after all.

----------

"I know where she's being kept." The strange shinigami with orange hair and his companion stopped bickering long enough to stare at him.

He should have just gone, he knew. Run before they could think twice and reported where they were hiding; it was embarrassing enough that he'd been captured in the first place by the intruders. But they were here to save _her_...

He remembered a hand pulling him to his feet and a smile with the saddest eyes he'd ever seen.

And thus his fate - doom - had begun.

"I can lead you to her."

_end_

December 2003


	3. where it ends

**Where It Ends**   
For Airy 

Spoilers: Up to Volume 9

* * *

She keeps her head down as she climbs, so that all she sees are the stairs, step after step after step of smooth, chalk-white stone, her bare feet pale against them.

She cannot remember how long she has been climbing - it could be forever, or no time at all. But she is used to the feeling. All her days now hang in this void, each of them just another step towards the inevitable, the inexorable.

Fourteen days.

And then it ends.

The end has been three months in the making - as it draws near, she thinks it would almost be a relief. A day, a week, a month - what difference do they make when they all lead to the executioner? She knows this, has known it for months now, ever since she gave a fire-haired boy a choice between death by her sword or death by Hollow.

She made her choice. Now, she pays her price. There are no regrets.

Her foot stops, mid-step.

_... a shinigami with orange hair and a sword the height of a man..._

When she spun around, stunned, he had turned on his heel, stalking past the guards so that they had to scramble to catch up, their moment of perfect grace lost. She would have smiled if she could.

You could always trust Renji to ruin the script.

Now, she draws a long, shuddering breath, plants her foot firmly on the next step, and climbs on.

A shinigami with orange hair and a sword the height of a man. She'd been here for more than forty years now, how many shinigami fit that description here in Soul Society? _None_.

He was supposed to be out of this. It was over for him. He could go back to a normal life and forget Kuchiki Rukia ever existed. It was OVER, he wasn't supposed to be here.

Her lips press together in a thin line. Oh, but she should have known better. She knew that he would live, was not that easy to kill; she should have known - did know - that he wouldn't let it drop, let her leave like that. Over his dead body - which was exactly what he was going to get coming here, him and his friends, but he - _they'd_ come anyway, god, Urahara (who else could it be?) the bastard, what was he _thinking_?

It was over. She would die and the Soul Society would forget she ever existed, just one more name in their libraries and records. Honoured Brother Byakuya could save himself the trouble of ignoring her, and Ichigo would go back to being an ordinary boy, and that would be the end of it.

Was supposed to be the end of it, except that if Ichigo was here, had come to stop this, then...

It was over anyway. He would die, him and his friends, and the execution would proceed, and _then_ it would be over, and...

Her fingers curl into loose fists.

The _idiot_.

The rumour was unconfirmed, Renji said. Then why tell her at all?

Oh, the idiot.

Her feet grow heavier with every step, but she climbs on. Easier to watch the steps pass under her, than to wonder when they will end, where they will end.

The rumour was unconfirmed. Renji shouldn't have told her - shouldn't even know. Vice captains have reputations to think of, duties to see to. Her brother would not have approved. But he'd visited her in prison anyway, brought food trays, news, yelled at her - grimly holding her back from... letting go. From dying, never mind that she is dead already.

And now he gives her this.

Fear. Despair. _Hope_.

And hope is a bitterness, burning the back of her throat, a hand clenched around her heart, weighing her down.

It's too late for her to tell him, don't do anything stupid. Renji always did care too much. She should have said something, she thinks now. Thank you, sorry, leave it. Let it go, it's over.

She never meant to drag anyone else into this.

Past the last step, and she stands before the window. The sunlight spilling through the slit in the wall is warm against her skin. Through it, she sees a sliver of sky, blue and cloudless.

Stretching into a world without end.

_end_

December 2003


	4. direction

**direction**

* * *

"So where are you going now?"

Zabimaru's question is a sibilant whisper in his ear as he leans against the wall to stare through the bars of the cell

Who is he fighting? Where is he going?

Renji doesn't ask himself questions like this. He's not the kind to read poetry, or think about questions with no answers. What the hell do they matter, in the end? He lives, he fights, what more can there be?

So much more.

And now he stands here with too many questions and only one answer. It's not an answer he wants to see. But it's there anyway.

Rukia.

Because in the end, all his damned roads have come back to her, haven't they? All his damned roads. He let her go, he watched her walk away, and everything was nothing but a detour back to a dead girl staring at the stars.

Where are you going?

He steps back and draws Zabimaru, smooth and unbroken again, with a cool whisper.

Where are you going?

Same place he's always been going.

Home.

end 

October 2004


	5. justice

**Justice**

She comes hours too late. The narrow alley stinks of piss and decaying trash. The body is in the dumpster - she spares it a bare glance as she walks past, for the frail, pale limbs, the wide, shattered eyes, the blood that stains the insides of the girl's legs.

Nothing she hasn't seen before.

She turns to look at the spirit. The girl is wearing her school uniform; she stands by the dumpster and stares at her cooling body with eyes already showing the first hint of madness. She is not crying, or huddled into herself - she is /angry/, with a fury Rukia can feel from ten steps away.

Ah. One of the dangerous ones.

The girl does not look at her. She is locked in the moment of her dying, she has eyes for nothing else.

"I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll kill him," she says to herself. Her footsteps drift to the dumpster, then back, as if repelled. She turns to the mouth of the alley and Rukia sees her chain of fate fall and hit the ground with a clank. It stretches out of the alley, down the street, to someone she cannot see.

The girl has bound herself to her killer. The spirit drifts past Rukia, following the chain. She is almsot past when Rukia catches her by the shoulder and says, "No."

The spirit stops. Slowly turns to look at her. The wide grey eyes fixed on the-death-that-was suddenly find themselves fixed on Death, as-it-is. Death that has no true face, only one final end.

"Shizuka Reiko," Rukia says. The spirit nods.

"How do you know my name?"

Rukia isn't here to provide answers. "I am here to see to your safe passage to the afterlife."

The girl tries to pull away. "No. No. I can't go. I have to kill him, I have to kill him, I have to hurt him, he hurt me..."

Rukia doesn't loosen her grip. It would be fitting for the child to become a Hollow (children's spirits make the most dangerous Hollows, their hearts are so easily, easily broken) and exact her vengeance in death. Poetic justice, she believes it's called. But she deals in death, not justice, and a Hollow-in-the-birthing cannot be allowed to run loose.

"I can't let you do that," she says, hand already on her sword.

The girl screams, a howl that seems to shatter the space in which they stand, so that Rukia finds herself almost forced back - by a spirit barely two hours dead, no less.

She draws her sword, tightens her grip on the struggling spirit, and drives the hilt into the girl's temple. The scream cuts off into a void of sound too absolute to be silence - there are tears in the girl's eyes.

"It's not fair," she whispers. "Not fair, not fair, not..."

A breath, she crumbles, and is gone.

Mortals, Rukia thinks, are so frail. Weak.


	6. tower

**tower**

Note: Linked to Excessive Chain's universe/continuity

* * *

The white tower looms in her mind's eye, four walls rising around her, endless as the sky, holding in the little time she had left. If she looks at her hands, she can still feel the cool stone when she pressed her palms, lips to the walls and imagined them draining her life away. There would be nothing left but a shell for them to burn on their pyre.

She curls her fingers, looks up. Sees a perfect blue above. The taste of chalk is bitter on her tongue.

She did not burn, did not die, but she stands empty, nonetheless.

_end_

May 2005


	7. red

**red**

* * *

The girl wore a robe the colour of dying roses, rich against her dark skin. Vaulting up onto the back alley wall, she grinned down at him with bloodthirsty good cheer.

Seated on an old crate where he'd been waiting for fifteen minutes now, he returned the grin with a smile of his own.

"You're late," he observed, making no move to stand.

She dropped into the alley and began plucking jewelled ornaments from her hair, tossing them into a convenient barrel. If they were still there when she returned, she would bring them back. If they weren't, she'd simply have to track the thief down and _then_ bring them back; it made no difference to her, though a thief would have been more entertaining.

"Sorry. I got," her grin widened, "distracted," she said, not apologetic at all.

"Starting the fun without me? I'm hurt," he mourned, not wounded in the least.

She smirked at him. "Oh, you didn't miss much. Just the old guards around the house. The night's barely started."

Far away in the city centre, the drums were booming into life, loud and insistent and frantic. It was the first night of the Mid-Autumn Festival; around them, the streets were brilliant with lanterns of every colour, flooded with people and noise, ablaze with laughter and dancing and gaiety and greed.

If the clan elders had their way, the Shihouin's young heir would be cloistered deep within the family compound, far away from the bustle, sitting through _their_ long, eleborate, autumn ceremonies. Yoruichi personally held, though, that no heir worth the title sat through those ceremonies unless they (for reasons unfathomable) wanted to. Sneaking out was a matter of _reputation_.

Urahara thought she didn't need the excuse; she would have done as she pleased anyway. (She'd called him lucky, once; his family had far fewer means of getting in his way. She seemed to have fun with hers, he'd pointed out in return - how much of an inconvenience _could_ they be? She hadn't answered, then, only grinned.)

She dropped the last comb with a clatter, shaking her long, heavy hair down her back.

"Done?" he inquired, just mild enough to hint at ever-so-saintly patience.

"Impatient already?" she asked, baring her teeth.

He stood, dusted himself off and smirked back. "Oh, never. How could I possibly grow impatient in your company?"

Her laugh was just another note in the cacophony around them. He'd barely blinked before she was behind him.

"Then you'd better keep up," she said, her breath warm on his ear.

He turned just in time to watch a flash of red silk vanish around the corner. His pocket had been relieved of his coin purse.

Of course.

He spun a bracelet she'd neglected to remove around a finger. It would fetch a _very_ pretty price in the markets, more than enough to finance an entire _month_ of mischief. Yoruichi's extensive collection of aunts would _also_ throw a fit if it was lost.

The night was young, as were they.

He chuckled, grinned, and followed.

_end_

June 2005


	8. fortress

**Fortress**

* * *

Sometimes, she suspected she was given the position simply because she was the only candidate capable of dealing with the horror that had become the Eight Division's paperwork. She'd certainly _believed_ that the first time she'd seen the Captain's office - or to be specific, not-seen his desk, buried as it were under several feet of papers, books, and who-knew-what-else.

"It's a bit of a mess, isn't it?" Captain Shunsui said, cheerful. "I'm sorry, haven't gotten round to tidying it up yet."

She was sure he hadn't. Stories about the Eight Division and its paperwork hadn't quite reached the legendary status that the Eleventh Division had long achieved, but they were getting there.

"But you don't have to worry about that right now, it's only your first day after all -"

She gave the office a _look_, lips thinning at the mess. But Captain Shunsui was already turning to show her the rest of the Division headquarters, so she could only follow. It was only her first day, after all.

The next day, she started work, ignoring her superior's protestations that she should take her time settling in. She shovelled papers, stacked books, sorted letters. It took her a full _week_ to clear the office, in the process uncovering miscellaneous lost inventories, what looked like a six-months-out-of-date account book, a suspicious quantity of unfinished love letters and bad poetry, and a couple of empty sake jars.

There was even what looked like a rouge stain on one of the jars, red against the rough clay. Nanao studied it for a moment but did not raise her eyebrows. It was not her place to criticise her superior's behaviour, only to carry out of her duties to the best of her abilities.

(In general, though, Nanao found very little to raise her eyebrows at. The Eight Division carried out its duties well enough, the men were disciplined, and if they were not as polished as one might desire, something in their manner said that what they lacked in reverence, they made up for in loyalty. Things were not as smoothly run as they should have been but they were by no means as dire as she might have expected either.)

By the end of the week, she'd restored a semblance of order to the room. Piles of papers circled the desk, but at least they were neat, _organised_ piles, each held down with weights to stop them flying away.

The Captain seemed quite startled to actually _see_ his desk again. He looked at the desk, then at her, half-shielded behind the piles of paper.

"I'm never going to be able to find anything now," he observed in almost mournful tones.

Nanao looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Considering that I've found seventeen overdue reports, one expired logbook and eighty three unanswered letters in here, I don't think you _were_ finding anything," she informed him in acid tones. "Captain," she remembered to add.

"Ah," he didn't seem abashed at all. He beamed at her, "I'm a lucky man! My vice captain is clearly as efficient as she is lovely!"

If it hadn't been for the wall of papers around her, Nanao suspected he might have tried to clasp her hand or do something equally silly. She found herself drawing back anyway, to say, stiff, "It's my duty, Sir."

"Nanao-chan, you don't have to be so cold," he said with an air of exaggerated hurt.

This was all very undignified, if not downright _inappropriate_ behaviour for a Captain, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to say so. Instead she tapped her brush on the papers at her desk and frowned. "I have a lot of reports to complete, Captain. Was there something you needed?"

"I just came to see that you were settling in. Everybody tells me you've been here all week. I can't have my new Vice Captain overworking herself so soon, you know," he said and gave her an almost serious look.

Nanao blinked.

"Thank you, Captain, but I am fine," she said, and paused. "I appreciate your concern, nonetheless," she made herself add.

He smiled. "Well. If you're sure you're all right, then," he said.

He left her to her work. She worked in peace for the rest of the afternoon, until racuous singing under the window made her realise the day had given way to evening and she should leave. She stopped and looked at the pile of reports still waiting to be written.

She hesitated, then stood, went to the open window and had to stick her head out to give the shinigami below a sharp lecture on Noise, the making thereof, and where they should _not_ be singing rude songs (namely, Nowhere Near Their Vice Captain). They'd broken her concentration, the sky was darkening, and she was, now she'd stopped to think, hungrier than she realised.

Giving the reports on the desk one last look, she left. They would be there tomorrow.

They were still waiting when she came in the next morning. So was an empty sake jar, a single gardenia standing tall and fresh in it, scarlet against the white of the papers and dark wood of the desk.

She blinked, surprised.

"Nanao-chan!"

Looking out of the window, she saw her Captain wave from the hall opposite.

"Good morning! I hope you like your gift!" he sang.

It was still early enough for the yard to be mostly empty but Nanao didn't doubt that he'd be _drawing_ people out if he kept shouting. She considered slamming the window shut but for all she knew, he might well _keep_ shouting if she did that.

"Good morning, Captain," she called out, just for something to say.

"You're so cold in the morning too! Does Nanao-chan not like flowers? Or maybe I should have left more? Roses, next time!"

She wondered if one could reprimand their commanding officer for addressing them inappropriately. Probably not.

"You have duties to see to, Sir. You will be late for the morning assembly if you don't hurry. You're wasting time on trivialities" she snapped, then shut the window before her Captain could think of anything more to add.

With a last 'Nanao-chaaaan', he went on his way.

She looked at her desk, the piles of paper surrounding it and the small flower that had, so to speak, breached the defenses. It was unnecessary. This was no place for flowers, she thought.

But it would be a waste to just throw it away.

It was still there the next morning, and the morning after, and when it began to wilt, she found a new one waiting, a daisy this time.

She studied the flower, then took a breath, and let it out.

The rules and manuals had plenty to say on a Vice Captain's duties and responsibilities and conduct, on their dress and code and behaviour. They had, naturally, nothing to say on what to do with a Captain like Captain Shunsui.

(Maybe her lips were a little less thin, her brow a little smoother. If there was any difference, it would have been hard to tell.)

Well. She supposed she might have to make it up as she went along, then.

Maybe it wouldn't even be as hard as it looked.

(It would all too likely be _harder_, she suspected.)

_end_

July 2005


	9. at most, flowers

**At most, flowers  
**For Afrai

* * *

It takes them all day to dig Moe's grave. The ground is hard and stony, and they are armed with nothing but tree branches and their bare hands. The sticks break in the ground, and grit works its way under their already filthy nails. High above, the sun sears. Sweat trickles into their eyes and burns their vision.

There are only two of them left.

The grave is shallow, in the end, just deep enough for them to lower his thin, lifeless body in, then scrape the dirt back over. A marker to mark the spot. It bears no name, but then, they don't need it to; they are the only ones left to care and they will not forget.

They do not speak; maybe they haven't spoken since Moe took his last breath and closed his eyes while they watched. What is there to say when they already know the motions so well?

She smooths the earth over the grave, then curls her fingers into the dirt. Renji watches her, because it is easier than looking at the marker standing between them, raw and new.

She lifts her head and looks at the graves around them.

"We should have brought something," she says.

He follows her gaze and has to swallow to speak. His tongue is thick and sticks in his mouth; he can taste grit between his teeth.

"Next time."

She nods, then stands and wipes her hands on her dirt-streaked yukata.

They leave as silent as they came.

One less to go.

* * *

They return one week later. They had no offerings to make in the end, only wreaths of wildflowers, settled around each marker like a crown. Their fingers are sticky with sap.

She sits back to the graves, staring into the light of the setting sun. He has to squint to see the lines of her rigid back, head held high, figure limed in fire.

(She carries herself like a noble, or a shinigami, Moe had murmured once, still in awe after all those years. Renji had snorted in answer and Moe had given him a small, wry smile. You don't, he'd said, laughing, and then Renji had thumped him and -)

He clenches his teeth against the memory. If he holds himself very still, maybe he can still remember how to breathe, how to close his eyes and not think. Their names run through him anyway.

Hara.

Yarigaya.

Moe.

Who next?

The thought staggers him. God. Fucking hell. _God_. As if it wasn't bad enough.

There isn't going to _be_ a next time, he tries to think. The truth is harsh: he and Rukia were always the strongest ones. Take care of Moe, Yarigaya had said before he went; he hadn't needed to say more. Renji and Rukia could take care of themselves.

He tries to imagine digging a grave alone and thinks he'd rather _be_ in the grave in that case.

There will _always_ be a next time.

It doesn't matter who goes next.

She stands suddenly. She still doesn't speak, but he climbs to his feet anyway, passes the graves (one, two, three now) to her.

From up here, they can see over miles of forest, green and lush as few things in their lives are. Hara had found this place, he who had been gentle and heavy and, size notwithstanding, the only one who cared to wander past the streets of Rukongai, searching for a peace they'd never quite found. Hara, who had been the first to leave, to ask to be brought back here for the last time.

He tries to think of something to say but his throat sticks. He tries to swallow and can't.

"Renji."

He starts. Her words fall clear and hard; hers is not the voice of the throat-parched, grief-choked.

"Let's go to the shinigami."

He stills.

"If we become shinigami, we can enter Seireitei. They say life is better there," she says.

Renji's never thought about the shinigami before, either way. He knows people who curse them, too many who are afraid of them, but they are too distant in their white towers for him to care. He's never thought of /becoming/ one before.

He wonders if she's just thought of this, or if it's something she's planned before.

Behind them, three graves, waiting.

"... yeah," he finally says.

The grim line of her shoulders sag a little.

He doesn't know how long they stand there, while the flame-coloured evening sinks into dusk around them, until the first stars begin to gleam from a sky still half-light.

"We should go," he says.

She turns without a word. They pass the graves and Renji stops; for a moment, he imagines he can almost smell the wildflowers, never mind that they're probably half wilted by now.

He shakes his head to clear it. Rukia stands before the grave in the middle, waiting.

"I'm fine," he mutters, and she gives the graves one last, steady look.

She doesn't look back, walking away from them. Renji watches her back and doesn't let himself turn.

There will be no next time.

_end_

Notes: Written for the 31days community on livejournal. Might or might not become part of a larger fic in future, depending.

August 2005


	10. flight

**flight**

* * *

Rukia dreams of flying. She opens her eyes and realises she is.

-

Trapped in the mortal world, she finds herself returning to the habits of her vagabond youth. She climbs trees, stairs, rooftops, as if the higher she climbs, the further she can leave this alien land behind. Crouched on the school roof, under a hot noon sky, she stares at the horizon and thinks of jumping.

Oh, to feel the wind on her face again.

-

In these heights, the wind cuts like a knife, slices deep to the bone. Rukia only draws a long, shuddering breath against the cold. Her hands dig deep, past the long, white feathers down into the softer down underneath, curl into tight, desperately careful fists.

"You came back," she murmurs to a mouth full of feathers.

Shirayuki makes a noise deep in her throat, half-caw, half-chuckle. Did she think her so easily lost? she seems to ask.

Rukia doesn't speak.

Far beneath them, plains of snow, rivers of ice.

_end_

November 2005


	11. snow falling on corpses

**snow falling on corpses**

* * *

The buildings are all mountains here, mountains made of glass and stone and sharp, knife-cut edges. In the darkness before dawn, she flies, high and higher, further in, further out, in this world with no beginning and no end.

Where she goes, the snow follows, a lazy scattering of white from the overcast sky. She draws circles behind her, spiraling inwards, until it seems this place has always slept, buried under the trail of her passing.

A strange world, this.

She finds him at last, diving from the sky, down into a street so narrow that when she stretches her wings full, they brush the sides of the buildings. Banking at the last moment, she alights on a lamp post, the only lit lamp on the night shadowed street. She folds her wings.

A man lies sprawled on his back in the middle of the road. Snow dusts the ragged black of his clothing; for all appearances, he could be dead.

He is not, of course, or this world would not exist.

She waits for a moment, studying her find, head tilted on side, then makes a noise of impatience. Her shriek is a harsh, keening echo through the empty city.

"Wake," she commands.

Finally, he begins to stir. He moves slowly, heavily; sitting up, he draws a hand over his face, studies himself. Climbing to his feet, he turns a slow circle to look at the street around him.

Finally, he looks up at the falcon taller than a man's height, with its feathers of white so bright, they burn with their own light.

"You are not from here," he says.

She clicks her tongue, contemptuous. "Of course not." What place would an ugly, misshapen world like this have for her?

He doesn't speak, only stands, still and waiting. He is only half awake yet, she decides, just like the noisy mortal boy Rukia has lost her powers to, and in the losing, left Sodeno Shirayuki trapped here, with this. The air is too warm, the terrain cluttered and strange; she thinks of how long she could be forced to stay in this stupid, stupid place and bristles.

"You are trapped here," he observes.

She thinks of how easy it should be to snap his bones with her beak, to take him in her claws and drop him from the highest building and hope he dashes and this world shatters with him.

"Yes," she hisses, and lifts her wings.

Down the street, the wind begins to rise, rippling through her feathers, whipping flurries of snow before it. They rise to spin around him, until he disappears in a hurricane of whirling snow, the eye of a solitary storm.

He doesn't move. Eventually, the wind begins to fall again, and she lowers her wings by a fraction. He reaches out a hand, catches a flake of snow in his palm, looks up at her.

"Hm," he says.

She snaps her beak at him. "You would do well to show more respect to your elders," she says, and shakes her feathers, spreads her wings to their full span.

"Indeed," he concedes, even as she begins to rise again, wings beating the air. "We bid you welcome." His voice resounds through the narrow space around her; she ignores it, spiraling back up into the sky, where she can almost ignore this world, ignore this place.

Where she goes, the snow follows. And up in the clouds, the first light of dawn begins to break.

_end_

November 2005


	12. queen

**queen**

* * *

In the silence of the street, Rukia looks down at the sleeping boy, then quietly, vehemently swears. She does not see the pale, dark-haired woman standing behind her, not even when Sodeno Shirayuki reaches down and winds her fingers in her dark, dishevelled hair. She can't, now.

"Ah," the woman says to herself.

They stop like this for an age, Sodeno Shirayuki watching Rukia watch the boy. It is not until a slim, warm arm snakes itself around her waist that she releases the girl, looks up.

"_Sister_," Benihime murmurs from behind her, her voice dark and rich as blood.

"Sister," she greets in return, her own voice the high, clear ringing of ice. She turns her face to Benihime's red, red mouth, her sharp, white teeth.

"It has been too long," Benihime says after a long moment.

"Indeed. You are sorely missed," she agrees.

"Come," the red woman says, and takes her hand. Behind her, doors, of rosewood and silk and golden, crimson-edged light.

Soden Shirayuki allows her take her through chamber after chamber after chamber, a dizzying labyrinth of hidden rooms, painted walls, embroidered satins and gossamers. Under their bare feet, ebony and fur, carpets of every colour and make. Benihime's domain is a maze built to dazzle the eyes, bewilder the senses; none pass or leave this place against her will.

The women stop at last in the largest hall of all, long and wide and low ceiling-ed. Benihime releases her sister's hand then to turn and look at her. White-skinned, black-haired, they could be mirror images, not just sisters. But Benihime is the smaller, curved of breast and hip, Sodeno Shirayuki the taller, straighter, her lips frosted with ice. The white woman takes the other's face in her cold, soft hands.

"Your exile has treated you well," she says.

"Kisuke tries," Benihime observes. "But there are none worthy of me here."

"Of course not," Sodeno Shirayuki says with a curl of her lip.

The red woman reaches up, curls a hand into the elaborate coiffure of her sister's hair. "And what of you? Were you much hurt? So reckless of her, to risk you as she did."

Sodeno Shirayuki stiffens at the words, turns her head to tilt her chin up. "I will recover. _We_ will recover. If it were not for that foolish, horrible boy -"

"Kisuke thinks him interesting," Benihime purrs, reaching back to pull a long pin from her own hair, dropping it. Her hair begins to fall loose, shedding jewels and ornaments on the floor behind her.

"That is no concern of ours," the white woman dismisses. "I only need for Rukia to regain her power, that I may return. We will learn from this, the mistake will not happen again."

"She is still so young," the red woman says, and smiles. "It must be so hard on you."

"She is over-burdened with foolish worries," her sister admits. "She does not listen to me as she ought, it is _most_ vexing."

Benihime tches in sympathy. "Shinigami," she says. "Wilful, exasperating creatures, all of them. Kisuke is no better. He is _infuriating_, when the mood takes him."

"He could not be anything less, to have taken you away to this fool place.".

"Forget them, for the time," Benihime whispers, one hand undoing Sodeno Shirayuki's wide obi. "It's been so long since I've had company."

Sodeno Shirayuki rakes her fingers through the other woman's hair, fine as silk and dark as sin. "For a time," she agrees. Her white robe slides from her shoulders, brocade and pearls pooling on the floor around her, and she steps from them.

Benihime's obi loosens, her robe falling open.

She looks up, smiles, and bends her head to a soft, licking kiss.

_end_

November 2005


End file.
